SPN, Meet FFN
by ZuWang
Summary: Sam and Dean discover the fanfiction muses living in their basement. Also the plot bunnies. Also the narrator. They ignore the narrator, as one does. Just a little silliness to brighten a rainy afternoon.


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Dean shook his head in frustration. "There it is again!"

Sam looked up from the thick tome he was scanning through for clues regarding their latest case, startled. "There what is again?"

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"That!" Dean practically shouted. He shut his own book with far more energy than was strictly required. "That clumping sound! Don't tell me you haven't heard it!"

Sam gently pulled the abused book from under his brother's hands. The bunker's library was priceless. Dean didn't seem to understand that. "Yeah," he said, shrugging. "I've heard it since day one. It's just a sound that the bunker makes. I tune it out, like the whirring of a laptop."

"Well, I can't." Dean stood.

"You can," Sam replied, sighing, "but you won't, because you'd rather be doing just about anything other than research. Hey! Wait for me." He carefully placed a slip of paper to mark his place in his own book, then hurried to catch up with Dean.

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The sound became louder as they followed it deeper into the barely-explored depths of their underground home. In the three months Sam and Dean had been living here, they'd slowly combed through most of the upper three floors of the bunker, but had only just begun to poke into the myriad of sub-basements and locked rooms below. Sam had insisted they do it slowly, cataloging as they go. After the second time Dean had found himself locked into one of the bunker's rooms by a seemingly innocuous magical item, he'd agreed to abide by Sam's caution.

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Dean swung down a spiral staircase to the second sub-basement, apparently forgetting that agreement in his haste to locate the source of the sound.

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The brothers found themselves in front of one of the bunker's seemingly endless number of wooden doors. This door was odd, though. Well, thought Sam, odd-er. It stood out from the others by its markings. Instead of the Aquarian Star which decorated every other door in their vast home, this one had three letters, "FFN," inscribed upon it in gold. The clumping – now clearly a wumping – was emanating from behind it.

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Even as Sam reached out a hand to caution his brother against it, Dean grabbed the knob and flung the door open…

To find…

A rabbit?

WUMP WUMP WUmp Wump wump wump wu…

The sound trailed to a halt as the bunny stopped thumping its leg on the ground beside it and turned its head up to gaze, surprised, at Dean and Sam.

Dean recovered first. "What are you supposed to be? The answer to the question, 'How did the magician do it'?"

"Well, no," said a voice from deeper in the room.

Both Winchesters startled. Somehow absorbed in the fact that they apparently had a pet rabbit in the bunker, they'd not looked beyond the fuzzy noisy nuisance. Now, they were shocked to find themselves in what looked like an old-style newsroom, complete with drafting desks, typewriters, and even an ancient teletype machine clattering away on the far wall. In the corner to their right, a cozy collection of deep, velvet couches surrounded a coffee table piled high with yellowing paper, bound soft-cover books, and two laptop computers (one with that hoity-toity fruity symbol Dean always avoided). Everywhere – EVERYWHERE – there were rabbits.

So. Many. Rabbits.

From couches and desks, harried-looking men and women had turned to stare at the Winchester brothers. It was one of these figures who had spoken.

Dean's pistol was pointed at the woman before Sam could blink, but Sam's automatic reach toward his waistband came up empty. His weapon was back in his room.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded, trying to block Sam bodily and cover the entire vast room with his single weapon even as he realized it was hopeless. They were vastly outnumbered.

Luckily, none of the figures seemed to be inclined toward violence. Indeed, the general feeling in the room seemed to be that of geniality. Several of the figures laughed, and more than one started fishing in their wallets and handing over strangely-marked bills to their compatriots. Sam caught a chuckled, "I told you they'd find us."

The woman who'd first spoken slowly approached the Winchesters, her hands outstretched in a non-threatening manner. She placed her hand calmly upon Dean's pistol and slowly pushed it toward the floor. Dean found himself completely unable to protest. In fact, he didn't want to protest. At all. The woman's idea – lower your weapon – seemed like his own. He wanted to lower his…

"HEY." Dean shouted, raising his pistol once more. "Cut that out!"

The woman laughed at this, shaking her head in ironic resignation. "You, Dean-Jensen-Winchester-Ackles, are just like the fickies write you. Completely unable to take direction by your brother, your God, your muse, or your author."

"I'm… What?" Dean couldn't decide if he was confused or affronted. He could take direction… sometimes…

"Wait," interjected Sam, his mind racing over what he'd just heard, "his… Muse?"

"Pretty AND quick," purred a scantily-clad, tired-looking man from where he sat on one of the couches. "Too bad about the death-penis thing."

"The… death penis thing?" Now Sam was confused.

Several dozen of the men and women around them nodded, mumbling in agreement or commiseration. Two of the rabbits seemed to be laughing.

"Yeah, it's sad, the death-penis thing," said a short, roundish, bespectacled woman, approaching Sam with a critical look on her face and a plate full of pastries. She twisted her expression in either disappointment or condemnation. "Huh. I like you younger. Cinnamon roll?" She offered him the plate.

Sam shook his head. He knew enough about magic to avoid eating here.

"So," he said, trying to forget about 'old' thing, not to mention the 'death-penis' thing, "you're all… muses."

"Yes." Confirmed the woman who seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson for the group. "More importantly, we're your Fanfiction muses. I'm Angst Rhydden, but you may call me Ann."

Both boys' eyebrows went up simultaneously, and they replied "Fanfiction muses?" to another general round of chuckling.

"I love it when they say things at the same time," came a voice from near the floor.

Dean swung his pistol toward the small, brown rabbit. "Did that bunny just… talk?"

"Oh, yes." Confirmed Ann, looking toward the rabbit. "Usually the plot bunnies just whisper, but some Fickie must have been ignoring Henry lately. Their voices get louder when that happens." She indicated a skittish looking white rabbit hopping energetically back and forth next to the teletype machine. "Jenny over there is dealing with a Fickie who received a new Xbox for his birthday. She's having the darndest time getting the Fickie to sit down and write about her. How's it going, Jenny?"

" **IT'S GONNA BE A LONG NIGHT! NEED MORE COFFEE! AND SOME WHISKEY! AND A SLEDGE HAMMER!"**

"See?"

"Dean," Sam said, finally catching on. "Lower your weapon. If I've got this right, it won't make a difference anyway."

Dean gave his brother a sidelong look, but followed Sam's request. "You understand what's going on here?"

"Yeah," said Sam, stepping further into the room with exaggerated caution. He picked up one of the papers scattered across the over-burdened coffee table. "I think I do. Do you remember that play at the girls' school a couple of years back?"

"Play? You mean the weird-ass robot-alien-gay-sex thing with the cardboard baby?"

"HEY!"

Dean looked down to see another rabbit at his feet. It looked pissed off. Well, as much as a rabbit can look pissed off, anyway.

"What's your problem?" He asked, feeling more than a little bit stupid.

"That musical was some of my best work. Robot/alien AUs are awesome!"

Dean opened his mouth, couldn't find anything to say, and closed it again. He looked imploringly at Sam, who was, of all things, laughing.

"Sam! You'd better explain what in hell is going on here, or I'm going to kick this rabbit so it bounces off your face."

For some reason, that statement set off a round of WUMP WUMP WUMP-ing from several of the nearby plot bunnies, but Ann cut them off with a stern look.

Sam got hold of his laughter and showed Dean the paper he'd retrieved. It was the playbill from the ill-fated Supernatural! The Musical! they'd hunted. "I think this is about fanfiction."

"A GOLD STAR TO THE SHAGGY ONE!" groused a nearby plot bunny, making his suggestion a reality by hopping as high as he could and stamping a smudged star onto the side of Sam's thigh.

"Crack bunny," said Ann, as if that explained anything at all. "They're harmless, if a bit annoying."

"RIGHT." The bunny wrinkled his nose and his ears sagged toward the floor. "JUST IGNORE ME. EVERYBODY DOES. THEY TALK AS IF THEY'RE GOING TO WRITE ME AND THEN THEY DON'T. JUST BECAUSE I'M CRACK DOESN'T MEAN I DON'T HAVE REAL FEELINGS!" He went on like that for a few minutes more, as a nearby muse picked him up and cuddled him, looking accusingly at Sam.

"COULD SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN WHAT YOU ALL ARE DOING IN OUR BUNKER?" Dean shouted as he finally snapped. "'Cause right now I'm feeling like I just walked into Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and I'm not even getting the fun of seeing Jessica."

At that, a silence fell, and a man stepped forward. He was dressed in a rumpled tweed suit, and wore a long, thick beard and – of all things – a monocle. He carried a thick, leather-bound book, which he opened with a pompous air. The pages were blank. "I," he proclaimed in a deep, resonant voice, "am the narrator. I will explain."

And he did. Ad Nauseum.

"We, the gathered beings of the Netherworld, are responsible for the great, the good, the readable, the passable, and the unreadable Fanfiction of Alternate Earth. We are the muses—but not the muses of old, NAY! The muses of NEW! The muses of almost-canon, headcanon, non-canon, alternate canon…"

On and on he droned, never stopping for breath and never wavering in tone.

Sam spoke right over him. "So, let me guess? He's responsible for bad narration?"

Ann nodded, also mostly ignoring the pompous Narrator. "That's Tell Notshow. As a narrator he's fairly reliable, which is great if a writer needs some quick exposition. The problem is, he bores readers to death."

"I bet." Deciding he wasn't likely to die in this strange room, Dean circled Tell Notshow and stepped—none-to-subtly up to another female muse. "And who are you?"

The muse was dressed in combat boots, tight jeans, and a midriff-baring torn T-shirt. Her purple eyes fluttered up at Dean from under overly-long lashes, and her hair smelled of roses (and something indefinably 'her'). "Me?" she asked, the 'e' drawn long with a Southern twang, "I'm Mary. Mary Sue. Pleasure, I'm sure." She sidled closer to Dean, pushing her chest against his.

Dean smiled goofily. "Me too. Pleasure. I. My pleasure, Sue," he stammered.

Sam rolled his eyes, and another round of laughter filled the room.

A well-built, darkly handsome man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and leaned on Dean from the other side. "And I," he purred, "am her brother, Gary." He smiled, and dimples creased his handsome face. He smoothed his hand down Dean's side, reaching…

Dean yelped, jumping away as if he'd been jolted with a Taser.

Sam laughed with the rest.

At that moment, two new beings popped into existence. One was _almost_ Sam –a little too tall, with just barely too much hair and (if this is even possible) wearing even more plaid than the real Sam. The other was _almost_ Dean – shorter, with blond hair of all things, and eyes so green they almost glowed. The newcomers took their bearings, nodded to the nearby Sue siblings, and walked toward a coffee pot in the corner. Each had a hand firmly placed on the other's butt.

Sam and Dean – who were now beginning to wonder if they were actually Sam and Dean – watched them go.

"So let me get this straight…"

"As if," mumbled a bunny sitting on his foot.

Sam ignored it.

"…you all are the muses of the people who write Supernatural Fanfiction."

There were nods from the assembled people and some of the rabbits.

"And you give the ideas to the writers."

There was a susurrus of mumbling, and Ann corrected him. "We don't give them the ideas. We simply breed the plot bunnies. The plot bunnies actually deliver the ideas."

"Okay," Sam continued, "so the plot bunnies deliver the ideas to the writers. You, what? Curate the result?"

"We do more than that!" the Narrator – Tell – looked affronted. "We ARE the stories! We are the characters! We are the plot! We are STORY ITSELF!"

"Uh. Huh." Dean said, signaling his brother and beginning to back toward the door. "And, you live in our basement?"

"Oh, Dean-Jensen-Winchester-Ackles," answered Ann with a conspiratorial air. "We live everywhere."

"And, hypothetically," responded Sam, now almost to the hallway, "If we were to lock this door and never let you back out, what would happen?"

"Writer's block?" supplied Dean, hopefully.

The assembled muses laughed, almost-Dean actually throwing back his head in his full-bodied humor.

Ann looked wistful as she answered, "Maybe for a time. But inspiration somehow always finds a way to get out. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon. Somewhere."

"For a time is good enough for now." Dean said as he and Sam fled through the door, closing it and locking it in one movement. Dean went immediately to the garage to grab some wood and nails.

Within half an hour, the room was thoroughly barricaded. Ann and Tell and the Sues and almost-Sam and almost-Dean were stuck on the other side.

Unfortunately, as the brothers had leapt through from the muses' world to their own, they hadn't noticed a small, brown, fuzzy shape escaping with them.

As Sam and Dean headed off toward the bunker's kitchen looking for a beer to celebrate a job well done, the bunny began to scratch, just softly, behind its left ear.

Its leg struck the floor, whisper soft for now but gaining speed.

The sound it made?

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End file.
